


Keep Your Eyes On Me

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Banter, Canon Timeline, Established Relationship, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Kinktober, Kinktober 2017, Kinktober 2018, Lap Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Strip Tease, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: Kinktober Day 27: StrippingHe’s caught the way Meyer’s eyes linger on the patch of skin peeking through his undone collar.“That’s what’s got your wheels turnin’, Little Man?” Charlie asks, the smirk growing. His collar is a little askew; Meyer wants to reach over and fix it, then thinks about brushing his fingers over Charlie’s neck. He snatches back his cigarette instead.“You’re a little—distracting, that’s all,” Meyer confesses, without meeting his eye. The carpet, after all, is also fascinating.





	Keep Your Eyes On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this Kinktober list](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/164938252491/kinktober-2017). Fic also on tumblr [here](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/179981996054/keep-your-eyes-on-me-kinktober-day-27-stripping).

“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” Charlie says, yanking the bar from his collar. He drops it on the table.

“It’s not like this is anything new, either,” Meyer comments, tapping the ash from his cigarette before slipping it back between his lips. He leans back, surveying Charlie as he paces. It’s a slow pace—annoyance, not anger, he knows. 

He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over the scalloped back of the chair opposite Meyer—the one he’s too busy pacing to occupy. “Yeah well, if Adonis could keep his fuckin’ head on his shoulders…” he grumbles. Roughly, he pries the cufflinks out of his shirt sleeves. Those, too, he drops onto the table. They shimmer as they roll on the polished rosewood, rocking to a halt with the lamplight reflected in their pearlescent finish. 

“We’ll take care of it,” Meyer assures him. “It’ll all be under control before you know it.”

“Sure, everything except Joe’s temper.”

Meyer smirks, lips pressing into a tight, thin line. “Well—that would be more like a miracle.” 

Charlie only shakes his head with a sigh. Neither of them are too concerned with the situation, though it’s certainly a frustrating and pointless hiccup. There isn’t enough bite to Charlie’s words, just the usual simmer of anger that always roils beneath the surface. Meyer merely adds this annoyance to his ever-growing personal collection. 

Charlie’s hands grasp at the sleeve of his shirt, a crisp sky blue without so much as a stripe, which is unusual for Charlie. Meyer likes it, though; there’s something elegant in its simplicity, and though Charlie can pull off any fashion, Meyer will always have his preferences. At the moment, Charlie’s set his admonishment for Joe Adonis aside, fixating on folding the fabric of his sleeves, doubling it over—revealing the tanned muscles of his forearm beneath, defined tendons flexing under skin as he pushes his sleeve back. It hugs against his bicep as Charlie finishes rolling; Meyer takes another drag from his cigarette as Charlie starts on the other arm. 

He does this, when he’s agitated. The heat of the room—of his own anger—gets under his skin. The sleeves feel too warm, the tie too tight against his throat, buttons pressing in with a weight they don’t have otherwise. Meyer knows this—he doesn’t quite understand the sensation, as he’s always found being without proper layers more distressing than liberating—but he certainly doesn’t mind Charlie’s habit. Especially when there’s no one else around and no need for him to hide his gaze. 

“Just once—” Charlie says, and Meyer realizes his only memory of the last few moments is Charlie’s forearms. “Just once, is it so much to ask for somethin' to go smooth?”

That, at least, is an easy question to answer. Meyer’s lips twitch around his cigarette. “Again with the miracles?” 

Charlie flashes a smile in return. Meyer’s eyes follow as he crosses the room; and if he doesn’t look away as Charlie bends down to retrieve two tumblers from the side cabinet, no one is around to know—Charlie included, not that he’d mind. The near-gold back of his vest contrasts nicely with the rest of the suit, dark blue and pinstriped, which hugs so naturally around the back of him in an elegant—and distracting—silhouette. 

Again, it’s not something Meyer always worries about for himself. But he can appreciate Charlie’s taste in dress; he’s just as nice with as without. 

The decanter clinks as Charlie pours them both a drink. He returns, hands one to Meyer, finally drops into the chair opposite, and takes a swig of his own. He wipes his lips against the back of his hand; Meyer downs a large gulp to smother whatever emotion is budding in his gut. The heat rushes down his throat and he realizes, a moment too late, how little this is going to help. 

“What’s it you got spinnin’ around in that head’a yours, huh?” Charlie asks around the rim of his glass. He stretches out his legs, ankles intertwining with Meyer’s, who jumps a little at the sudden contact. Charlie chuckles, runs his ankle lethargically up Meyer’s shin. 

“Nothing important, just—like you said, with Adonis,” he lies, less cleanly than he should. The leg against his own isn’t helping. 

Charlie doesn’t believe him; the look in his eyes says as much as he reaches forward to pluck the cigarette from between Meyer’s fingers, an old habit that he indulges more often now that he can steal a kiss while he’s at it. He reclines, bringing Meyer’s cigarette to his own lips, cheeks puckering around it. “You got somethin’ you’re stuck on, I can tell,” he says, exhaling smoke. 

It’s hard to say if Charlie’s being deliberate with his mouth or if he’s just being Charlie (the latter is more likely and all the more frustrating for it). The drink is making his head feel pleasantly fuzzy. Besides which, Charlie’s forearms are very nice; he infuriatingly raises a hand to his mouth, rubbing a finger over his lip.

“It’s not Adonis, so much as—” Meyer falters. 

Really, Charlie? Of all the moments? He had to pick _just then_ to work his fingers through the knot of his tie, undoing it along with his top button. He downs the rest of his drink to buy time in answering, but Charlie’s brow furrows and that charming wolfish grin follows. He’s caught the way Meyer’s eyes linger on the patch of skin peeking through his undone collar. So he hadn’t been planning it, but he’s finally caught on.

“That’s what’s got your wheels turnin’, Little Man?” he asks, the smirk growing. His collar is a little askew; Meyer wants to reach over and fix it, then thinks about brushing his fingers over Charlie’s neck. He snatches back his cigarette instead.

“You’re a little—distracting, that’s all,” Meyer confesses, without meeting his eye. The carpet, after all, is also fascinating. 

“Yeah, one button’s real bold,” Charlie snarks, not without fondness. “I can see why you’re mesmerized.” 

Meyer glares, grabs Charlie’s glass, and downs the rest of his drink as well. “Everything you do is mesmerizing,” he mumbles around the rim, heat flushing in his cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol. 

“Yeah?” 

And that’s a dangerous _yeah,_ Meyer knows. He knows, even before Charlie’s hands reach the top button of his vest, flicking it open. 

“How bout that?” he asks, fingers working their way slowly down the line of buttons, taking his time unfastening each. “Gonna forget all that arithmetic you got up there?” 

Meyer feels his face burn hot, but refuses to give Charlie the satisfaction. Not yet, anyway. Instead he just shifts in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. “Only if you really impress me,” he says, surprising himself. 

He surprises Charlie, too, catches him off guard for just a moment—but then that look is back on his face, and Meyer knows he enjoys the challenge as much as he accepts it. 

“Maybe I oughta give you a bit more, huh?” he says, voice barely above a gravelly whisper. Charlie sits forward in his seat, slipping out of his vest. It falls behind him on the chair with a soft thump as he stands.

Charlie’s only in his shirtsleeves now, rolled to expose his firm arms, suspenders digging faint grooves into his shoulders. He’s quick to kick off his shoes while Meyer settles himself back against the armchair. “I see you learned a thing or two at the Tenderloin,” Meyer remarks, eyes sweeping up and down Charlie’s body. Even clothed, his neat silhouette is beautiful.

“Seein’ as you ain’t ever been there, I guess I gotta show what you’re missin’,” Charlie says, playfully shimmying his shoulders in a gesture even Meyer can recognize. 

Meyer half-laughs and looks down at his lap, shaking his head. Despite being completely dressed himself, he feels more self-conscious—more exposed—about watching, now that Charlie’s so determined to make a display of it. “You’re… ridiculous, you know that?” 

“That what I am?” Charlie asks, pouting like he’s offended. He reaches up and fastens the top button of his shirt with quick fingers. “Guess I’ll just put my clothes back on and leave.” 

“Somehow I think you’ll find that more disappointing than I will,” Meyer counters. This, Meyer can handle. This is more familiar. He smirks, enjoying his momentary upper-hand. 

Charlie scoffs, his brows dipping into a scowl as he stoops to pick up his vest. He eyes Meyer pointedly as he slips his arms through with a huff. “Mey, keep this up and I’ll be puttin’ on my winter coat in no time.” 

“What, exactly, do you want me to say?” he asks, and the question is not entirely insincere. 

In a voice higher than his own, Charlie suggests, quite unhelpfully, “ _Gee Charlie, you sure are handsome, won’t you please take your clothes off?_ ” 

“I do _not_ sound like that.” 

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Charlie pouts. “Would it kill you to pay a fella a compliment?” 

It’s not without fondness that Meyer smirks at the size of Charlie’s ego; it’s larger than the Woolworth Building, but Meyer can’t say he minds—or that it isn’t, in some respects, deserved. He lights another cigarette, largely because he needs something to do with his hands. “You are,” he tells the cigarette. 

“I am what?” Charlie’s hands hesitate on his vest, sliding barely off his shoulder. 

“…Handsome.” Meyer shifts and looks down. “Very.” He hears the rustle of fabric and sees the vest hit the ground at Charlie’s feet. He takes a step forward, then another, until he’s standing over Meyer.

“That’s a start,” Charlie says and rewards him with a button. Just one. He looms over Meyer, leans his hands on the back of his chair, bracketing him on either side with his body. “Here, I’ll let you help,” he says, biting his own lip for just a moment. His hand finds Meyer—as always, he’s warm as a furnace—and their fingers twine together, Charlie guiding him to his suspenders. 

Meyer tilts his chin to look up at him, tries not to look too obvious as he swallows, and gently pushes the suspenders off Charlie’s shoulder—one after the other, letting his palms brush against the fabric of his shirt. He runs an uncertain hand down the front of Charlie’s chest, hesitating at the top of his pants, before his fingers quickly unfasten the loops of the suspenders at the front. Charlie undoes the one at back and tosses them aside. 

“But that’s it, alright? Now you just gotta watch,” Charlie warns, prodding a finger under Meyer’s chin. 

Meyer just smirks and lifts an eyebrow. “A chore, really,” he says. 

“Well, if you want somethin’ to do…” It’s that kind of _tone_ —the tone of an idea taking shape—and this time it’s more than sarcasm that raises his face. Charlie’s already taking his clothes off one by one; any other ideas that pop into his head must surely be dangerous. He doesn’t quite trust his voice, but his expectant expression is enough, as Charlie continues, “Maybe a little encouragement?” 

Meyer snorts. “When have you ever needed convincing to take your clothes off?” 

But Charlie must be really set in his plan, because he doesn’t even take that bait. He nudges Meyer’s thigh with his knee, pushing it aside, as he kneels one leg on the chair, the other on the floor, leaning closer to Meyer. “I’m feelin’ shy,” he all but purrs, in the least shy voice Meyer’s ever heard in his life. His breath is hot as it brushes against Meyer’s cheek; he swallows. 

“You do… have nice—uh, shoulders,” he stammers, eyes firmly on the lines running down Charlie’s trouser legs. He tries not to think too hard about those coming off; the only reason he succeeds is that he’s much too flustered to think of anything with much depth or detail. The nearness of Charlie’s torso, his hands on either side, the warmth of his breath fill Meyer’s head to the exclusion of nearly all else. 

“Shoulders?” Charlie, apparently, finds this half-surprising and half-funny. 

“Yes. They’re nice. I like biting them,” Meyer says firmly, through almost-grit teeth. Charlie asked for encouragement, not poetry. He’s lucky he got anything coherent at all, really, and—

But it must have done the trick. Charlie’s palm is brushing across Meyer’s cheek, cupping his face, and there’s warmth in his eyes—and more than enough mischief—as he says, “You just keep your eyes on me, alright?” 

Meyer would argue that it’s hard to do anything else, if he hadn’t spent the last few minutes alternating between unabashed staring and avoiding Charlie in favor of memorizing the floor, ignoring the heat in his face and other places. But he lifts his gaze now and doesn’t look away. 

He doesn’t look away as Charlie starts on the top button, as his fingers slide down to the next, and the next. He doesn’t look away as Charlie pauses, pushing the sides of the shirt apart, taking his sweet time and teasing Meyer. He lets his fingers trail down his chest as he moves onto the next button. 

Once he’s finally reached the bottom, shirt hanging open off his shoulders, Charlie settles himself squarely on Meyer’s lap. He rolls one shoulder back, letting the fabric slide, effortless, down his arm. He smirks, clearly relishing Meyer’s eyes on him, and does the same on the other side. He arches his back, and it falls off his arms, dropping to the floor. 

“So, you like ‘em?” he asks, nodding to his shoulders.

It takes Meyer a moment to remember his earlier comment. His mouth is dry, but he distantly nods yes. Charlie chuckles, that low rumble in his throat, and says, “You’re gonna make good on that promise, alright, Little Man?” 

“What promise?” Distracted though he may be, Meyer’s never one to miss a trick—though Charlie, in this mood, is full of them. 

“Biting them,” Charlie reminds, and it’s his turn to look away, a little bashful. There’s heat rising under his skin, too. Meyer can see the way the flush dusts below his ears, across the bob in his throat, and it’s so distracting that he almost forgets to respond. 

“I didn’t promise I would,” Meyer points out after a pause, though there’s not a lot of confrontation in it. After all, he doesn’t mind in the slightest. It’s hard to think of little else but causing more color to rise beneath Charlie’s skin. 

“Make you a deal,” Charlie says, casual, the way they do all the time—only it’s not the sort of promises he’s making to anyone else. “Promise you bite ‘em red as you’re blushin’ and I’ll take this off,” he says with a gesture to his undershirt. 

Meyer makes a show of contemplating for a moment, dithering, and agrees. 

“You always got a smart head for business,” Charlie teases. Meyer would offer some sort of comeback, if Charlie weren’t already tugging the fabric over his head. He tosses it with little ceremony somewhere over the back of the chair, out of Meyer’s line of sight—not that Meyer can really look at anything else.

Charlie on his lap, limiting his range of motion, is one thing. Charlie shirtless on his lap is another—warm skin hardly inches from his fingertips, the muscular curve of his shoulders, the way he’s still a little too slender, even with the muscle that came from growing up, and his collar bones jut forward just slightly. Maybe he’ll bite them too, he thinks. 

“But not yet,” Charlie tacks on, like he could hear Meyer’s contemplation. “You gotta wait till I’m all done.” 

Meyer sighs with put-upon resignation; patience might be harder for someone else, though even Meyer feels a slight sting of disappointment that he can’t put his hands all over the planes of Charlie’s chest, drag his hands along his back, feel his arms. 

Charlie’s staring down between them with a look of contemplation. “Guess it’s gonna be trouble gettin’ these off, sittin’ here. Shouldn’t’a made myself comfortable.”

He’s not being sincere—too much smirk hiding behind his solemn words—but before Meyer can say anything to that effect, Charlie shifts. Forward. Meyer gasps. After holding back, it feels like _so much_ to suddenly have Charlie rub against him. He slides back, rolling his hips against Meyer a second time. His fists curl around the arms of the chair. “Guess I’m a little stuck,” Charlie says innocently, the grin on his face anything but. 

“You—” He’s cut off by another sharp intake of breath as Charlie shifts up and down. 

“You were sayin’?” 

“You _fuck._ ” It’s not what he had been saying, but it’s what he’s saying now. “You absolute fuck.”

“Well, if that’s what you want, why didn’t you just say so?” And the smirk Charlie gives him is equal parts arousing and infuriating. It’s just that _face_ and Meyer’s nails scrape against the upholstery for lack of Charlie’s skin to grab onto. “I’m gonna have to take these off first though,” he says with a nod at his pants, their crotches, and another fake attempt at dislodging himself from Meyer’s lap that sends a shiver down his spine. “You want that?” 

“You—uh—I suppose that all depends on whether or not you can manage it. Seeing as you’re having such difficulty… getting up.” Now it’s Meyer’s turn to smirk. Charlie glares, and it’s a low blow, but really, he walked into that one. 

But the glare evens back into that dangerous expression. Charlie leans in, and Meyer inhales as Charlie’s teeth graze along his ear. “You sure about that?” he murmurs, low in his throat, rutting against Meyer. He can feel how hard he is—Charlie always did like having eyes on him—and between the waiting and the way Charlie’s moving in his lap, Meyer can’t deny that the sensation is mutual. He keeps going—sliding back and forth, rolling his hips into Meyer. It’s hard to say whether he’s still making a point or just enjoying himself too much, but Meyer’s long past analyzing Charlie’s intentions. Even with fabric in the way, the friction between them is too good. 

“Here. How’s about I give you a little more?” Charlie croons in husky tones. He slides back, lifts one leg to the floor and raises himself off Meyer’s lap, fingers already fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. Meyer’s mouth is dry as ever, he doesn’t want to lose the nearness or the comforting weight of Charlie on his lap, and he wants to _touch_ him. 

“No,” Meyer says, unprompted. 

Charlie freezes; even without knowing what or why, he still stops, hands at the top of his pants, one leg kneeling and one on the floor, as he glances at Meyer with pink-flushed cheeks. He cocks his head, licks his lips, waits. “No?” 

He hadn’t planned it, but the words feel natural as he looks up at Charlie’s awaiting expression, the flush in his cheeks, an openness in his eyes under knit brows. “Not until you kiss me.” 

He expects Charlie to argue, to offer some quip, some teasing remark. Instead, without any hesitation, Charlie’s mouth is on his, warm, eager, pressing firmly against his lips. Meyer makes a noise of muffled surprise against his mouth, eyes closed, as the surprise melts into a moan. He feels Charlie settle back on his lap; Meyer’s hands press down on his thighs, pulling him close, close, closer. 

It’s several fervent kisses later before Charlie pulls back with a gasp. “You’re not—s’posed to touch,” he pants against his mouth. 

“Then stop me.” 

He’s not gripping hard, nothing Charlie couldn’t shoo away in order to continue his little routine, but he makes no effort to move Meyer’s palms from where they’re splayed out across the tops of his thighs. Instead, he leans in, brushes his lips against Meyer’s neck, and whispers, “That ain’t playin’ fair.” 

“More fun this way,” Meyer retorts, as his thumb slides against the ridge of Charlie’s inseam. He feels the way Charlie’s muscles tense under his touch, hears the sharp intake of air between his lips, exhaled in a tight moan. 

With the barrier broken between them, neither wants to return to their former restraint. He wants Charlie under his hands as much as Charlie wants Meyer’s hands on him at last. He skates his fingers up higher along Charlie’s thighs, tracing a wide detour around the center of his legs that makes Charlie thrust his hips forward in disappointment. Instead, Meyer’s fingers hook under the waistband, slipping between warm skin and fabric. “Doesn’t seem as though you want me to stop touching you.” 

“I still gotta get these off,” Charlie mutters, looking down. His voice is low, tight, and he bites down on his lip; the sight jolts in Meyer’s stomach. He wants to be the one doing that. 

“You don’t have to.” Meyer says it lightly—like it could be a question, but it’s all the answer Charlie needs. 

Their mouths crash together, Meyer’s hands fumbling with the closure of Charlie’s pants. He gasps and moans into Meyer’s mouth when he finally frees his cock, the palm of his hand sliding easily down the length of soft skin. He strokes him, fingers curled, until Charlie finally pulls back, running his hands down Meyer’s chest—over the fabric of the many layers still clinging to his body. 

His lips are red, eyes shining bright with want, as Charlie quirks a flushed smile. “Don’t got time to get all your clothes off,” he says, before his lips are back on Meyer’s, his hands opening his pants. 

Meyer bucks his hips up, as Charlie wraps a hand around them both. Charlie’s strokes are quick, fervent, too far gone for any patience. “Lemme take care of this. I just wanna—feel you everywhere,” he says against Meyer’s ear. The words coil tight in his stomach, a spark in his veins. 

His arms wrap firm around the small of Charlie’s back, tugging him close. He kisses down the side of his neck, across the front of his throat, down to his collarbones, and over the curves of his shoulders—touching, tasting, every bit of skin Charlie’d been keeping from him. Meyer can’t help it. It feels so good to finally touch Charlie, to feel the warmth of his skin. His hands clutch at him, points of his nails sharp in his shoulder blades, and Charlie arches appreciatively into it all—his own hand never stilling around them for a moment. 

Meyer nips—sharp, small—at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Charlie jerks in his lap, and Meyer moans at the way Charlie’s hand judders around both of their cocks. 

“Fuck, Mey,” he breathes. 

“I made you a deal, didn’t I?” Meyer moves across his shoulder, biting, sucking, tugging the skin between his teeth and working his mouth all across it. 

“Knew you was—” He interrupts himself with a moan, voice breathy. “—knew you was good as your word.” Charlie’s head falls to the side, baring more skin for Meyer to mark, and each bite garners an appreciative moan and a quickening of his hand. 

He closes his eyes, bucking up into Charlie’s grasp, despite the weight of his body bracketing his lap. The heat mounts with every up-and-down slide, a hurried friction of skin on skin. Charlie’s breath against his neck is ragged, uneven, a high whine at the edge of each exhale. 

“Meyer—fuck—please—”

To stifle his own moaning, Meyer sinks his teeth into the juncture of Charlie’s neck—hard, firm, too far gone for thinking. Charlie gasps, whines, and Meyer can feel every twitch and shake of his body against his own. Meyer isn’t long behind, with the way Charlie’s fingers move between them, a desperate, hurried motion.

When at last the room settles into stillness, their chests heaving, they sit for a moment in silence. Meyer turns his face and settles it into the crook of Charlie’s neck. He can feel his pulse against his lips—thrumming hard, but steadying. His skin is slightly dampened with sweat, the smell of worn-off cologne distant but familiar. 

With a sigh, Charlie shifts, settles from his kneeling perch until he’s more comfortably sitting in Meyer’s lap. Their heads rest against each other’s shoulders. Meyer swallows and blinks his eyes open, met once again with the warm golden light of the room. He smiles down at the expanse of Charlie’s back below his gaze, skin dotted with the occasional birthmark. Across the tops of his shoulders, red patches are blooming and bursting from beneath his skin. 

The room feels warm, heavy—or maybe that’s just their proximity to one another, the languid heat of their bodies coming to rest. Slowly, fatigue in his limbs, Meyer reaches for Charlie’s wrist; he twitches as Meyer’s fingers brush skin. It makes him chuckle—all that contact, but a delicate brush of his wrist is like a live wire. 

Charlie tilts his chin and glances at Meyer with warm eyes and slightly swollen lips. “Somethin’ funny?” 

“I think you missed something.” Meyer unfastens the strap of Charlie’s watch and dangles it in front of him, a small, satisfied smile pressed into his lips. 

Charlie blinks at it, opens his mouth, and lets his head hang as he laughs. His cheeks are flushed pink, hair askew in messy corkscrews; laughter looks good as it falls from his lopsided grin. 

“Maybe if _somebody_ ,” Charlie says, swiping his watch from Meyer’s fingers, “let me get everythin’ off before gettin’ impatient…” 

Meyer scoffs. “ _I_ got impatient?” Charlie pockets his watch and shoots him a knowing look that makes him bristle on principle. “I don’t seem to recall much restraint from you, either.” 

“Well,” Charlie says, eyes alight. The smirk spreads slow—warm as it is mischievous—as he runs his hands down Meyer’s chest. “Guess we gotta try again sometime, see who caves first.” 

“I’ll take that bet.” 


End file.
